


Running With Scissors

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Kiss, Humor, Kissing, M/M, Romance, Schmoop, Sibling Incest, Wincest - Freeform, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, Wordcount: Over 1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-17
Updated: 2011-04-17
Packaged: 2017-10-18 05:16:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean always chooses scissors.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Running With Scissors

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【Translation】Running With Scissors 总是剪刀](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1469776) by [sixdrops](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sixdrops/pseuds/sixdrops)



Dean always chooses scissors.

It's one of only a handful of unswerving, universal constants in Sam's world. People die, drunks lose at pool, and Dean's scissors will fall to Sam's rock every time.

Sam remembers being seventeen and taking Shelly Bartusek to the Watertown High School senior prom—remembers how Dean needed the car that night, and they automatically raised their fists into the air to see who would actually wind up behind the wheel. Dad was down with a broken leg, and Dean had a concert to go to, but Sam won the match and picked his date up in the hottest car she'd probably ever seen.

Sam remembers Dean griping about it for weeks after, but it was easy enough to ignore the grumbling when Sam thought about taking Shelly home after the dance. An hour on the front porch swing kissing her good night, and Sam floated on the memory long after they left Watertown, Wisconsin behind them in the dust.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Dean always chooses scissors, and Sam can't quite bring himself to fault his brother's hopeless optimism. It's a contest of wills: an extended race to see which of them is going to break the pattern first. Time after time after time, Sam almost goes with paper just in case. Just to see.

But he knows instinctively that it's not going to be Dean who jumps this track. So Sam sticks with rock, and he wins every time. Shaking his head and taunting his brother and laughing at the surly glower Dean always gives him.

A matter of months after Sam finds himself back in this world, they battle for first shower after a messy hunt. It's the first time they've returned to this particular tradition since Stanford, but tonight they're both caked in mud and gore. Whoever doesn't get under that spray first is going to be scraping the mess off with his fingernails, and Sam doesn't want it to be him.

He almost hesitates. It's been more than three years, and he realizes in a fractured instant that the rules might have changed. It's the first time in his life he's been uncertain what Dean will pick, and the uncertainty feels like reality turning itself upside down in his head.

Maybe it's desperation that has him wrapping his hand into a tight fist and holding it steady, or maybe he's a hopeless optimist himself. Either way, the pattern holds true, and Sam breathes a relieved sigh as he crushes Dean's scissors with his rock. The relief has nothing to do with first shower and everything to do with knowing that there's one constant he can still rely on.

He grins when Dean mumbles an angry " _Fuck_!" and is still smiling when he closes the bathroom door and cuts off the audible stream of Dean's grumbling voice.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Dean always chooses scissors and, four months later, Sam starts to get suspicious.

He has no idea what's changed, but suddenly he's skeptical about his 'hopeless optimism' theory. Even Dean has to learn eventually. Sam's got no reason to buck the system—he wins every time—but Dean? Dean should've gotten desperate enough to try something else by now.

The stubborn adherence to tradition just doesn't track with logic.

The final straw—the hint that finally pulls Sam over the edge—is a nasty creature they hunt in Arizona. It's an Afanc—probably the monster behind all those urban legends about alligators beneath the cities—and it lives in the sewers.

Their plan isn't great. Sam never likes it when they have to split up. But they rock-paper-scissors over who has to trail the thing through the rank, grimy sewer system. When Dean loses, he complains as loudly as ever, but this time Sam thinks it through.

Not until later, of course. Not until the creature is dead and Sam is stitching up Dean's arm back at the motel, his own blood an edgy hum at how close he came to losing his brother in that mess of tunnels.

Not until it occurs to him that his crazy, reckless, overprotective brother would never in a million years have let Sam take point on this one—and it's only then that Sam realizes he's been played.

He raises his eyes sharply at the revelation, catching Dean in a hard stare. Dean stares back with wide, confused eyes, clueless about the thoughts filling Sam's head. Not realizing he's been caught out.

Sam swallows hard and forces himself to look away—finishes tying off the last stitch and then binds Dean's arm up for the night.

"Dude," Dean says, following when Sam stands, and setting a hand on Sam's suddenly tense back. "You okay?"

Not thinking with any useful clarity, Sam turns to face his brother. He finds himself standing too close, and even though it should be awkward, he doesn't back off. But Dean doesn't back off either. From here Sam has a magnified view of the startled green in Dean's eyes and the scattering of freckles across his face. He sees Dean's eyebrows knit in confusion and thinks suddenly, inexplicably, that his brother is beautiful.

"Do you—?" Sam starts to ask, but his throat tightens and won't let him finish. Dean is watching him with expectant curiosity, and Sam shakes his head. "You must think I'm _such_ an idiot," he mutters.

"Sammy, what the hell?"

"It's okay." Sam takes a deliberate step back. "I _am_ an idiot. Clearly."

"Or you're just _crazy_ ," Dean supplies helpfully. "I hear that can be a problem." He's teasing, but it's a thinly crafted front that does nothing to conceal his bewilderment. "Sam, what are you even talking about?"

"Nothing." Sam wanders away across the room, rinsing Dean's blood from his hands in the sink next to the bathroom. "It's nothing."

Dean clearly doesn't believe him, but Sam is resolved to say nothing more.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Dean always chooses scissors, and now that Sam is paying attention he realizes he doesn't know his brother as well as he thought.

He can see it, now that he's watching: the protective code guiding Dean's actions. His grumbling rings hollow when Sam listens for the truth behind it. ' _Why do I always have to do the disgusting part?_ ' means, ' _I'm not letting you near that thing._ ' And ' _Fuck you and your first shower_ ' means, ' _You look exhausted, man._ '

' _I hate you sometimes_ ' means, ' _I love you so goddamn much_ '—and it's that last one that scares Sam shitless.

He's not worthy, and he doesn't deserve this, and he just plain doesn't get how Dean can keep putting him first—over and over again—when all Sam has ever done is let his brother down.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Dean always chooses scissors, and in Washington state it puts him in the center of a nest of pixies at a bad moment—just as Sam invokes the final words of a rite to make them all implode. Dean ends up covered in pixie juice, which is disturbing enough, but neither of them expects the accompanying curse.

It's nothing deadly—all the lore says a pixy's last prank will wear off in a matter of days—but knocks Dean on his ass, and Sam quickly realizes that his brother can't lie, can't keep his thoughts to himself, and can't quite remember silly things like decorum.

Everything else aside, the fact that Dean can't lie is temptation on a stick, and it's all Sam can do not to take advantage of the opportunity. There are so many things he wants to ask Dean, and the scissors question is right at the top of the list. If he asks when Dean is in a proper state of mind, his brother will lie to him outright. But Dean can't so much as dissemble in his current condition, and it's the perfect opportunity to drag everything out into the open.

In the end, Sam knows better, and he keeps the question to himself.

Unfortunately, Sam's impressive willpower does nothing to prevent Dean from talking about whatever he feels like—which seems to be whatever comes most immediately to mind.

It leads to some painful moments as Dean tells the pretty girl behind the motel check-in desk that she smells nice, then later informs the dude by the ice machine outside that those pants make his ass look fantastic.

Sam herds his brother indoors and vows to keep him there until the curse goes away, but it turns out Dean can think of plenty of things to say to Sam, too.

"You know, I love you even though you're a girl sometimes."

Which may not be new information, but Sam groans as he flops back on his bed, draping an arm over his face, determined to ignore Dean as best he can.

"I do, though," Dean insists. "I love you even more than I love watching 'When Harry Met Sally.' Only don't tell anyone I like that movie, okay?"

"Dean, stop talking," Sam pleads. Because sure, no harm in Dean confessing he likes stupid romantic comedies—and maybe all Dean's about to segue into is a comparison of his favorite flavors of pie—but there's still a whole world of things Dean could follow up with that he doesn't want Sam to know. The last thing Sam wants to deal with in three days is his brother hiding in the bathroom and refusing to come out for the humiliation of having revealed his best-kept secrets.

Sam is surprised to feel the bed dip beside him, and more so when he feels Dean settle against his side, pressing a warm cheek to Sam's shoulder in something that feels a whole lot like snuggling. Sam cautiously lowers his arm so he can look down at his brother, and finds Dean watching him with wide, concerned eyes.

"You mad at me, Sammy?" Dean asks, and his voice and face are matching tones of intense sincerity.

"Of course not," says Sam.

"Good," says Dean, and snuggles in closer, leaving Sam's heart to speed inexplicably in his chest. "Don't want you to be mad at me, Sammy. I love you."

"You said that already," Sam points out.

"Yeah, but I _do_ ," Dean insists, and suddenly he's turning and shifting and propping himself on his hands and knees so he can look Sam in the eye. "I love you so fucking much. It's more than a brother thing, you know?" He says it so cheerfully, so _simply_ that Sam could almost believe it's not what it sounds like—could almost believe it except for the fact that Dean leans down, and kisses him, and there's no way for Sam to mistake _that_ meaning.

He's on his feet quickly, loudly explaining that no, he's not _mad_ , he just… needs to go pick up some food. Right now. Alone. He spikes Dean's water with a sedative when they eat dinner, and does the same for most of the next three days, waiting for the curse to dissipate.

As he watches Dean sleep, he thinks again that his brother is beautiful. Thinks guiltily about leaning in and kissing his placid lips to see if they're as soft as the quick snapshot of a memory is telling him. Just the idea of doing something like that to his brother should feel a whole lot bigger, but the only thing dissuading Sam is the knowledge that it would be an unforgivable violation of Dean's trust.

Instead he watches from a safe distance, wondering and wanting and thinking in useless circles as the sun rises and sets and the course of time drains the curse from Dean's system.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Dean always chooses scissors, even after he wakes up on day four.

They immediately go about pretending that the whole kiss thing never happened—continuing on with their business. Another hunt in another town, with coffee every morning and a couple of beers to celebrate their success when lives are saved and the spirit is put to rest. Another hunt after that, and then another, following newspaper clippings and obituaries around the country from one mission to the next, and all the while Sam is watching Dean closely.

He doesn't try to be discreet about it. Sam could never dissemble for shit where his brother is involved. What's the point of trying to be surreptitious when it will just clue Dean in to the fact that he has something to hide?

Besides, Dean is always watching him right back. Sam realizes with a jolt that this isn't a new thing. Dean has always watched Sam with exclusive attention, rapt and protective, and Sam thinks he must be an idiot not to have realized that it's more than just his brother keeping an eye on him. Sure, maybe Dean worries that Sam will disappear on him—after Stanford, after the orchard incident in Burkitsville, _especially_ after Hibbing, Minnesota—but the weight of his gaze is heavier than that, and now that Sam's paying attention he feels warm gratitude and something closer to want settle low in his chest.

They end up catching each other out more often than not, their eyes locking longer than they should when one glances up and finds the other staring. Sam always fights to keep his expression neutral, because the alternative is an inviting smile or an outright leer that he's pretty sure will only send Dean running. Dean always blushes bright red and looks guiltily away.

A dozen times Sam almost says something instead of letting it drop. He could be at Dean's side in seconds, could touch him and kiss him and do all those things brothers aren't supposed to do, but something stops him.

It's not fear. Nothing but an instinct telling him that the time isn't right, that Dean's not ready, that whatever this is between them, it needs more time to grow and settle.

So Sam keeps watching, filing every thought and daydream away for later. Storing up the urge to lick the water dripping down Dean's neck when his brother steps out of the shower, or to shove him against the bureau as Dean digs for a t-shirt in his duffel, or to climb into bed behind him and listen to him snore.

"Dude, _what_?" Dean asks him once, annoyed and off balance from catching Sam staring yet again.

"Nothing," says Sam, and smiles a small, secret smile that he knows will drive Dean nuts. "It's nothing. Don't worry about it."

Dean swears and throws a towel at Sam's head, and Sam laughs as he follows his brother out to the car.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Dean always chooses scissors, so one day Sam goes with paper instead of rock, and it tears their world to a startled halt.

He doesn't do it on a hunt or anywhere dangerous—the last thing he wants to do is get them killed by messing with Dean's head in a life-and-death situation. He waits for something easy—a disagreement about whether they're going to get pizza or gyros for dinner—and the look on Dean's face when he sees the flat spread of Sam's fingers is priceless terror.

Sam could break the silence, but he waits it out instead. Watches fascinated as Dean's mouth opens and closes while no sound comes out. He waits until Dean finally, with slow reluctance, raises his eyes to meet Sam's.

"So. Um. Gyros then?" Dean asks.

"I'm on to you, you know," says Sam, sidestepping the question and diving in for the kill. "I've been on to you for months."

"I don't know what you're talking about," says Dean, but his game face is shot to hell and Sam can see right through it.

"Are you really going to try and convince me you don't do it on purpose?" Sam asks, feeling the uninvited quirk of a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. "Really, Dean?"

Dean curses and looks away, scuffing his toe against the carpet.

Sam almost pities him. He's obviously thrown his brother for a total loop with this one. But the timing is finally right and Sam's purpose has never been clearer. Besides, Dean had it coming. No one plays a Winchester without suffering the consequences—not even another Winchester.

"It's okay, you know," says Sam, taking a step too close. "I just think we need a new system."

Dean tilts his head to squint cautiously up at him, throat working in a nervous swallow as he says, "You're really not mad?" Sam hears Dean's voice in his head along with the question, a bright, plaintive ' _Don't want you to be mad at me, Sammy_ ' that echoes in his memory.

"Nah. I mean, you're a total _jerk_ , but. That's nothing new."

Dean glowers at him, but the sullen expression doesn't reach his eyes. It doesn't suppress the wordless flicker of hope Sam sees, carefully buried but there just the same. Sam takes a startled breath as he realizes that this is it, this is the moment his heart has been waiting on, and it's time to gamble everything on his next move.

He feels terror and exhilaration in equal parts as he says, "Hey, Dean?"

"What?"

"Don't hit me for this, okay?"

"Hit you for wh—?" Except Sam kisses him before he can finish the question, taking Dean's face in his hands and leaning down to press his lips to his brother's startled mouth. Dean swears in surprise, right into the kiss, and for a second Sam worries that he's got it all wrong—that he's miscalculated everything and fucked them up beyond repair.

But before he can pull away, Dean moves against him, warm and eager and encouraging. His lips part beneath Sam's, his tongue the barest, teasing hint of contact along Sam's lower lip, his hands sliding into the messy fringe of Sam's hair and then along his back to pull him closer.

Sam accepts every invitation, his own hands leaving Dean's face to slide in exploring paths down his brother's body. He feels his dick starting to take an interest in the proceedings—wants to grab Dean by the ass and rock against him, but he thinks that might be too forward for this new, unfamiliar connection between them. So instead he groans into Dean's mouth and holds him close and doesn't pull back until they're both breathing in hard, gasping pants.

" _Jesus_ ," Dean whispers when they finally separate, still so close that Sam feels the words ghost across his own kiss-slick lips. They're still wrapped around each other, arms and hands holding tight as they breathe each other's air, and Sam doesn't want to let go.

Dean's eyes finally open, locking with Sam's as well as they can from bare inches away, and he says, "Do you want… I mean, we could…" He trails off, his point conveyed well enough, and for a moment Sam is seriously tempted. They _could_ : take this to bed and get more naked and touch and kiss and explore…

But every wall Dean has is crumbling away between them, and Sam can see something else in his eyes. His brother is _nervous_ , expression open and unsure as he waits on Sam to tell him what to do. And badly as Sam may want to shove his brother naked onto the nearest mattress, he knows with sudden clarity that they have to take this slowly.

His brother is a romantic at heart, and this isn't some fling they can set aside later. This is big. It changes everything. Sam owes it to Dean to do this right.

Which doesn't change the fact that Dean is looking him squarely in the eye and offering him _everything_ —no delays, no distractions, nothing but naked promise—and Sam knows his brother well enough to be sure that if he backs off now Dean will read it wrong. Dean will see rejection in the fact that Sam wants to take it slow, and the air is full of so much taut anticipation that Sam doesn't dare do anything to break the tension. He stands there frozen—his brother warm and breathless in his arms—caught between the conflicting urges to take what Dean is offering or to take a necessary step back.

Sam's conundrum resolves itself when Dean's stomach emits a loud gurgle, audibly highlighting the fact that they're well past supper time. Dean's eyes go comically wide at the sound, surprised and a little betrayed, and suddenly Sam is helpless to do anything but laugh. He snickers into Dean's shoulder, holding his brother all the tighter as his body shakes with unguarded mirth.

"Fuck you," Dean mutters, but his tone is humoring rather than annoyed.

"Come on," says Sam, grinning wide and wiping away tears as he finally takes a step back. "Let's go get gyros." Because Dean won fair and square, even if the gyro place looked sketchy as hell. "And maybe afterwards we can grab a beer. Somewhere with a dart board so I can kick your ass."

"In your dreams, Sammy," says Dean. "You've never beaten me at darts in your life."

It's true, and Sam laughs again as he grabs his coat off the chair nearest the door, following his brother into the parking lot outside. The sun is just disappearing over the tree line to the west, purple tones barely beginning to creep across the sky as Sam and Dean make their way towards the car.

"There's a first time for everything," Sam smirks.

He smacks Dean's ass on his way to the passenger door, and it just feels right.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Running with Scissors](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6878965) by [soukuyah (coynsundry)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coynsundry/pseuds/soukuyah)




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